6/9/2025

a squirrel gazing into the moon:

"what if someone saw u, really saw u, and didn't look away?"

Dear Moon,

You are going to know me.
Not just the parts that shine easy in the light,
but the wild, the weary, the whimsical,
the storm-sparkle pieces
that most people never even think to search for.

​

You’ll trace the blemishes on my skin
like constellations,
and still call me the most beautiful sky.
You’ll see the imperfections,
the squirrel-ness,

plant kisses,
and love me more, not less.

​

When I can't sing the high notes,
you’ll still say my voice carries a spell.
You’ll understand the silence I keep company with at 2 a.m.,
when the only light is the glow of my screen,
and the ache of not knowing if I’m enough.

​

Not woman enough.
Not neurotypical enough.
Not soft enough, not sharp enough, not anything enough.

​

But you’ll see me whole,
and never lacking.

​

You’ll know the kind of joy I feel
standing on the edge of Twin Peaks,
wind-lifted like a lone leaf in flight.

​

You won’t call me spoiled
for wanting to pilot a private jet.
You won’t find me too much
for wanting a last-minute solo trip to Morocco.
You won’t think I’m childish
when I talk about my La La Land.

When I paint my face wild on Halloween,
you’ll laugh and kiss my forehead.

You’ll hold me,
not too tight,
but just enough to make me feel safe.

​

You’ll let me nap in your arms,

head to your chest,

and I’ll slip away gently

before your arm goes numb.

​

You’ll be curious,

not cautious,
when I confess my silly stories.
You’ll love all of me,
the pretty, the strange,
the naive, the knowing,
the soft and the sword.

​

You’ll bring me flowers
when I least expect it.
Then you’ll ask how my soul is,
not just how my day went.

​

And in return,
I’ll see you,
not your résumé, not your charm,
but the marrow of you:
your scars, your softness,
your failures, your fire.

​

I want to peel you open like a walnut,
past the shell, past the armor, past the mask.
I want the truth of your joy,
your fears, your longings,
your tiny dislikes and strange obsessions.

​

I know there are wounds,
and that wounds grow scabs for protection.

But love,
I want to touch the scabs.
Gently.
Honestly.

​

And maybe, if you’ll let me,
we’ll peel them off together,
painfully, slowly, bravely.
Skin to skin.
Wound to wound.
Until we grow ourselves to one another.

​

You’ll come to know
that sometimes I need Bach to breathe,
Debussy to dream,
Chopin to weep.

​

That I hear colors in music
and emotions in rhythms.
That I seek the souls of long-dead composers
when mine feels too alive.

​

You’ll learn I’m just an ordinary woman
passing through life unseen,
until you look,
and I become extraordinary in your gaze.

​

With me,
time will stop and expand.
You’ll feel like you’re staring into the night sky,
held and humbled,
spinning and anchored all at once.

​

And you’ll walk toward me,
not perfect,
but real.

​

You’ll whisper, “There you are.”
And I’ll say, “Finally.”

And we’ll meet in the middle,
no masks.
No lies.

​

Just soul.
Just truth.
Just love.